


Perfect

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Regret, Reunions, Unrequited Love, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Tonight will be perfect.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	Perfect

Mary loves old things. She likes vintage dresses, Victorian jewellery, Jane Austen, Downton Abbey.

As he looks at the case of antique rings, John tries to imagine one of them on her hand. A proposal is meant to be a joyous moment. It requires the perfect ring, and that is his mission.

“Maybe this one,” he says, pointing through the glass.

The shop assistant puts on the half-glasses which dangle from a chain around her neck, and uses the key to open the case. Selecting the small box he indicated, she sets it in his hand.

A single ruby, dark red, with small diamonds clustered around.

“The diamonds are all real,” she says, answering his question before he even thinks it. “The cut is Old European.”

The ring is gold. He doesn’t see her wearing a platinum ring. Her hand is small, but not dainty. She keeps her nails short, wears shell-coloured nail enamel. It’s a capable hand, lovely in its competence. A hand that can check a pulse, hold a hammer, chop an onion. Mary’s hands were made for doing things.

“It’s a bit fussy,” he says. It reminds him of lace. He examines all the little points that will catch on things. He imagines a hand wearing that ring, trying to slide into a purse or pocket.

“Vintage rings tend to be fussy,” she says. “Think of the dresses she wears, the kind of wedding dress she’ll want. Is she a no-nonsense sort of person, or more romantic?”

He doesn’t know. Mary isn’t gaudy. She likes old things. He wonders why it is that this very independent, cheeky, and commanding woman likes things that seem of another era. Her feet are firmly grounded in the present. He tries to imagine her as a young girl, her first dance, her first boyfriend, her first kiss. Nothing comes to mind.

The woman shows him another ring, again, a ruby. This one has two small diamonds, one set on either side of the larger stone, which is deep crimson, almost purple.

“How much?” he asks.

It’s more than he wanted to spend. Thinking this, he immediately feels guilty. Forever is not cheap. One does not cut corners on _till death do us part_.

He digs his card out of his wallet.

Sherlock looks in the mirror, ruffles his fingers through his hair. He is beginning to feel like himself once more, having spent weeks in hospital, healing. The haircut makes him look familiar again, but he doesn’t feel quite like the old Sherlock.

He wonders again, _what will John see?_ _A face from the past? A gaze from a crowd of strangers?_

There is so much he wants to tell John, but he needs to plan carefully, choose his words well. His timing must be perfect.

 _It’s just possible that you won’t be welcome,_ Mycroft had said.

A dinner reservation at a nice restaurant, above John’s pay grade. It doesn’t take even half a brain to deduce what’s happening.

But he knows John Watson. He may have found someone to fill in for Sherlock, but he doesn’t really want all that— a wedding, a house in the suburbs, furniture, crockpots. No, John is not made for _that_ life. He is made for mystery, danger, and _surprise._

Sherlock will give him the perfect surprise.

Sliding his arms into his Belstaff, he smiles at his reflection, imagining John’s face when he sees him.

Dark suit, dark tie. _It’s not a funeral, Watson._ He pulls out the knot and starts over.

The ring box sits on the bed, mocking him. He should probably begin thinking about the words he will use to ask her. It’s a memorable moment, one she will likely remember forever. People will ask them, and she’ll tell the story, how they met, how he asked her to marry him. It will become part of their folklore as a couple.

He looks at his reflection. The moustache is new, one more new thing to make him someone new, someone better than the man who watched his best friend fall. Who let his best friend die. Though he still doesn’t know why it happened, or how he could have prevented it, the guilt is there, a dull ache in his gut.

_I was supposed to take care of him. Love him, cherish him, till death…_

Well, it was never like that. Sherlock and he were friends, maybe even best friends, but John is absolutely certain, has always known that the feeling was mostly on his side. He’d once called Sherlock a _machine_ , but that was wrong. He did feel things, but he would never feel _that_ way, not for John Watson.

And so, a new life. Mary loves him. Two years of grief are over, as of right now. He straightens his tie. Tonight will be perfect.

The restaurant is busy, but not crowded. He hands his Belstaff to the cloakroom attendant and strides through the doors.

The mâitre d’ approaches. “May I help you, sir?”

He is on point, his mind humming with deductions. _Expectant father._ The man’s phone beeps. “Your wife. Her contractions have started.”

Scanning the faces, he walks among the tables, spots John sitting alone, fingering the box that holds the ring.

The moustache is awful, he decides. That will definitely have to go. But it is the face that nearly stops Sherlock in his tracks. _Has been ill— no, not ill. Lost weight, regained some, but not all. Nightmares, alcohol. Grieving, then. Recently met someone, is forcing himself to move on. Probably at Ella’s suggestion._

The ring box.

Two years suddenly feel like a weight Sherlock cannot bear.

John is fidgeting with the box, nervously turning it this way and that, as if he’s looking for the perfect placement. He is waiting for someone, waiting for this moment to be over so his life can begin again.

Sherlock forgets how he was planning to swoop in and rescue John, forgets everything he was going to say. There are no words that can erase those two years from John Watson’s life.

And everything suddenly blurs, as if Sherlock is watching the scene in a funhouse mirror. Everything is wrong, as far from perfect as it can possibly be.

Here is John, waiting… but not for Sherlock.

He stops thinking. A bowtie, a pair of glasses, and a penciled-on moustache, and he is no longer Sherlock. He moves towards the table with purpose.

Champagne. That’s what they need. He feels the waiter hovering, and realises that he doesn’t know the first thing about champagne, or wine, or expensive restaurants. His suit feels too heavy, his collar too tight. He is sweating, completely out of his element, and everything is _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“May I ‘elp you with anything, sir?”

Relieved, he turns the job of picking the perfect bottle over to an expert. That’s what waiters do, isn’t it? They hover until you need them, and then they disappear. It’s part of what you’re paying for, all these linen tablecloths and heavy flatware and chandeliers and classical music…

“Surprise me,” he says.

“I am certainly endeavouring to, sir.”

He pulls out the ring box once more, opens it and looks at the ring he’s chosen. It’s perfect for Mary, but entirely wrong for him. This is all wrong. Instead of anticipation, he feels dread.

She’s coming down the stairway now, looking beautiful and poised. She knows about the box, and is ready for him to ask her. Gliding to the table, she slides into her seat.

“Now then, what did you want to ask me?”

The words he planned stick in his throat. She is smiling, patient with him as always. Two years of grief. He owes her so much.

“Er, so... Mary. Listen, erm... I know it hasn’t been long ... I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time…”

“Go on.”

“These last couple of years haven’t been easy for me…”

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much. You were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known…_

He clears his throat. “Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”

She giggles. “I agree. I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.”

“So... if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…”

He’s proposing to her. She is smiling, confident, almost smugly sure of this man. John is oddly nervous, off balance, but stoically carrying on with what he has planned. This perfect moment.

_John, I am a ridiculous man... redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship._

He approaches with the champagne.

The waiter is showing him a bottle, asking for his opinion. For a moment he feels relief. His horrible, halting proposal isn’t even over. Maybe it isn’t too late to change his mind.

It’s too late. He steels himself fo finish what he’s begun.

Then annoyance, his far-from-perfect moment spoiled by a pushy waiter. “No, sorry, not now, please.”

Sherlock hears himself babbling. “Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers…”

John doesn't look up. His date is making a face.

“…suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.”

“Could you just…”

John looks up.

“Not dead.”


End file.
